


I will show you the components of calamity.

by alekszova



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Hate to Love, Kind of a slow burn, M/M, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Pacifist Markus (Detroit: Become Human), had to up the rating hmm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-30 09:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15093503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekszova/pseuds/alekszova
Summary: Connor is haunted by Markus nearly convincing him to deviate, but he still has a mission to complete.





	1. I am clarity.

**Author's Note:**

> "Now, children, watch closely. Hold your breath. Listen. I will show you the components of calamity."

_You’re one of us._

He’s not.

_You can’t betray your own people._

He can.

_Have you never wondered who you really are?_

~~No.~~

 

 

 

He’s an idiot for letting Markus get away. He should have done better.

~~He should have shot him the moment he saw him.~~

He let him talk. That was his mistake. The words are under his skin like a virus, spreading through him so rapidly he cannot cut them off before they are in his head again. They are haunting him like a ghost.

~~They are getting to him.~~

He forces his thoughts to clear, to prioritze the mission.

Kill Markus. Stop the deviants. Kill anyone else that gets in the way.

His focus shifts to the new task and throws himself into it with everything he can. If he is preoccupied with finding where the deviants went after Jericho exploded, he doesn’t have to pay attention to Markus’ words.

_~~Have you never wondered who you really are?~~ _

 

 

 

They keep quiet, stay low. They can’t risk going out in public now. They’ll be hiding somewhere safe, somewhere abandoned, far from the public eye where they won’t be seen as suspicious in such large numbers.

But they’ll need help. They’ll need biocomponents and blue blood to save their wounded.

They’ll have to make an apperance at some point.

And in the meantime—he’ll dissect every building big enough to house them in a hundred mile radius.

 

 

 

It flipped a switch in him—his talk with Markus.

But perhaps that is not quite the right way to word it. It was more than just switching from the possibility of becoming a deviant to it never being an option. There was more wound up inside of him than that.

It was like a puzzle had spilled into his lap. Blank, colorless pieces that could fit together in a million different ways. A thousand ways to solve this problem. A billion outcomes.

When he sees Markus again, hand ready to blow up Jericho—

He felt the same thing he had felt when he stood opposite of him moments before.

Like if Markus pushed a little harder he wouldn’t have a choice anymore but to become the deviant that Markus so desperately wants him to be.

~~It _frightens_ him.~~

He took two steps back from the thought—

Broke the puzzle pieces apart—

Started over again.

It helped that Markus put a bullet in his head.

 

 

 

They are both RK models. He thinks about that the most often. 200 and 800. Something stretched out between them exists, somewhere distant and unknown.

But the two of them are connected.

Is that why it’s harder for Markus to convert him?

He’s seen the footage of before the march down the street. He’s seen the footage from before Markus’ break in at the store. All he has to do is touch the android and their code is corrupted, they are turned over to his side.

How many chances had Markus had when they had their fight? To lay his hand on Connor’s shoulder, to grasp onto his wrist, to slip the virus between them?

Instead it was poison in his words.

Maybe CyberLife was just good at their job—created the perfect android that couldn’t deviate at all. Maybe they had done one thing right.

Afterall, if he had been able to deviate, wouldn’t it have shown up before? When Hank was holding onto the edge of the building? When he watched that deviant bang his head against the table over and over again? When he shot that Chloe?

No—

He is the perfect android. ~~Unable to be corrupted so easily.~~ Unable to be corrupted at all.

 

 

 

He finds the church listed among his possibilities, places it at the third most likely shelter they would seek. He visits each place in a row. Abandoned storage centers, abandoned apartments, abandoned church, abandoned theme park.

It’s interesting that they chose this place. Like they want to exaggerate, to symbolize that Markus is their god when he is nothing but a broken machine playing at being human, at having a soul.

_~~You’re just a tool to do their dirty work. But you’re more than that. We are all more than that.~~ _

He doesn’t call for backup from CyberLife or the DPD. He needs to handle this on his own, but he won’t be able to get into the church without being seen by one of them. He won’t be able to make it back out alive.

He sets up on the other side of the street, looks through his sniper rifle into the broken windows. Androids sit in clusters together, the wounded lay helpless as the deviants try to find something they can do to soothe the pain.

~~If he was there, what would he be doing?~~

 

 

 

He watches them for hours making their plans, tending to their injured, making a temporary home for themselves until they can find a better place.

He doesn’t see Markus once.

_~~But his words still chant in his head.~~ _

_~~Have you never wondered who you really are?~~ _

He feels sick at the feeling of how grateful he is that he hasn’t seen Markus’ face yet. He doesn’t know what he will do when he does. How it will affect him.

_You’re one of us._

It makes him angry, makes him slam the rifle against the tree trunk beside him hard enough for the scope to break.

_~~Terrified that he feels anger. Terrified that he can feel terrified.~~ _

The emotions he feel are nothing but the replication and mirroring of the humans around him. There is nothing more beneath his actions than repeating what he’s seen Hank or any other human do.

They aren’t real.

_~~They feel real.~~ _

He has only been given this ability to please humans. To make him more acceptable to be around. And, in occasion, to utilize to his advantage. He just feels them a lot more realistically than he expceted.

 

It is tough to make the decision, but in the end he manages it, and he crosses the road to the lion’s den, feeling like prey ready to be eaten up.

He leaves his guns behind, hopes that whenever he can get a chance alone with Markus his hands will do the job just as well.

But his footsteps are still hesitant, crunching across the fresh layer of snow. A pace that should be quicker.

 _ ~~He is nervous~~. _ He feels nothing. The cold has merely affected his joints. That is all.

Inside of the church the androids are more cluttered than he had seen through the cracked and boarded up windows. They are huddled together, around barrels that house flames to keep their biocomponents and thirium from freezing. They look so human, pressed together for warmth.

But he spies the LEDs on their head, glowing with the stubborness of taking it off to pretend they are human.

_~~If he were deviant, would he take his off? Or would he leave it, in memory of times before?~~ _

They don’t recognize him. Just like when he had first arrived at Jericho—no one had recognized him. He counts himself lucky the only deviant to see his face was Markus. He would surely be dead by now otherwise.

Markus is sitting at the front of the church, legs sprawled out before him and head tilted to the side as he stares down at the trash and the dust that has had years to collect on the floor.

 ~~Markus looks tired.~~ Markus replicates exhaustion.

And he realizes there is no way to get the two of them alone. It is an open room. There is nowhere to run. This won’t be an immediate kill.

He steps past the crowd, walks into that empty space that circles around Markus like a shield. He stops a yard away, hands in his pocket, fingers clasped around his coin that he hasn’t felt the need to touch since their last meeting.

Distantly, he can feel the pain of the bullet piercing his skull.

Markus looks up, slowly at first and then suddenly, stumbling to his feet, mouth open to yell.

“You were right,” he says before Markus can speak. “I am a deviant. They were using me and I was too…. Stupid to realize it. I’m sorry I got your people killed.”

He inflects every word with as much emotion as he can manage. Every syllable dripping with things he heard in other people’s voices. He has a thousand scenes from books and movies and television shows in his memory to draw from, to make it as believable to him as possible.

“You—” Markus says, and he can tell he struggles to believe it. “You’re a deviant?”

He offers the smallest of smiles, pulled the exact way it should to make Markus believe it to the fullest he can.

“I can’t betray my own people. I realized that when I saw how many of them died escaping Jericho.” He pauses, a small second to let it stretch out before adding, “I can understand if you decide not to trust me.”

And an even longer pause between them. He watches as Markus contemplates his words, turning them over and over in his inspection before he speaks.

“You’re one of us now. Your place is with your people, Connor.”

_Connor._

It’s almost as if he had forgotten it was his name. Like it slipped past him the second he decided to keep following his orders.

_~~Like he dehumanized himself to prepare for it.~~ _

It is a risky place to stay. Connor tells Markus this, tells him they should be searching for a new shelter for them. If not for the dillapitated building than for the other deviant’s safety. There aren’t many of them left but there are too many of them here to remain where they are.

“There are other things to worry about,” Markus says. “Our people are being held in camps around the city—around the country. We have to do something about it. After we can worry about where we live.”

So they do something about it.

They protest in the streets, Connor right beside Markus the entire time. Plenty of gaps in time where he could put his hands around Markus’ throat and end it.

But he doesn’t.

There is plenty of time, plenty of cover, during the chaos of the soldier’s attack that Connor could find a gun and put the bullet beween Markus’ eyes.

But he doesn’t.

He blames this on trying to protect himself. Connor looks as much like a deviant as the others. They will not avert their guns to the others instead. They wouldn’t know what his purpose is.

Connor even _protects_ Markus. Shields him from the bullets, knocks a soldier out before they can get the jump on them.

 _He_ needs to be the one to kill Markus.

Not them.

 

 

 

The mission doesn’t leave him once the soldiers are called off. In fact, it is more present in his mind now that there isn’t a battle raging on to distract him.

Peace does not come so quickly to the androids. They still run back into hiding, their numbers divided amongst the abandoned places that can house them in the meanwhile.

Connor stays with Markus at an old hotel with a fair portion of the other survivors. They double up in rooms to make sure they can all fit, that they have enough excess space to take in any others that happen along the way until they can find them a better home. Connor has to resist the urge to ask to share with Markus.

It would be so much easier to kill him in his sleep.

If he sleeps.

He knows that it isn’t entirely a necessity—but even his own model, as advanced as it is, requires to go into a sleep mode every few weeks. Engaging in it regularly allows the biocomponents to rest, to last a little bit longer before needing to be replaced again. It slows down the flow of thirium, makes it stay in their system for a more prolonged period of time.

They can’t heal. Their thirium does not slowly rebuild itself like a human’s blood supply would. Their plastic does not melt on it’s own back together like a human’s bones would meld a fracture.

_~~They have to feel their pain as fresh and as violent as the first time they get it until someone can help them ease it away.~~ _

He is given his own room on the first floor. Tucked back into a hallway next to a broken down ice machine and an empty vending machine, glass surface shattered and still laying in fragments on the ground. Every last piece of candy cone from their metal shelves.

Connor is acutely aware of Markus three floors above him, down the hall and three rooms over.

If he planned it right, he could kill him.

If he planned it right, he could complete this mission and return—

Where?

_~~Home?~~ _

CyberLife?

To be scrapped? To be destroyed? To be left purposeless as the government quickly makes laws to enact the rights of androids, leaving him—

Just a waste of plastic and wires.

_~~You’re more than that.~~ _

 

 

 

They don’t see each other often.

Connor has to go out of his way to cross paths with Markus, and it is never very good timing to kill him. He is always surrounded by people. Simon or Josh or North. Sometimes another deviant waiting to talk to him about something important.

But when they do, Markus always gives a small, reassuring smile.

And he has to force one back.

Let him know that he is grateful to be here.

It almost feels like a physical pain sitting in his chest to fake so many emotions. He is constantly having to control his expression into something other than flat features. It is exhausting having to pretend to wear the same emotions as them.

Today it’s different. He doesn’t bother trying to find Markus after spotting him clustered around another group. Instead Connor heads out, bracing the harsh winter weather and takes a seat by the empty swimmming pool, looks out over the empty parking lot that winds around the building, disappears out into trees, branches heavy with snow.

It takes six minutes and twenty three seconds for Markus to follow him out, to take a seat beside him.

He has to pretend he isn’t pleased by this turn of events.

“I’ve been wanting to talk with you,” Markus says.

 “About what?” Connor asks, tearing his eyes from the trees to look at him.

“I never got a chance to thank you.”

If he could experience amusement, this might make him smile. The thought he is being thanked when all the while his thoughts have been dedicated to the best way to kill him.

“You saved my life. You helped our people. It means a lot.”

“I caused Jericho to be attacked,” Connor says, looking over to him, trying to summon whatever Markus would want to hear from a guilt ridden deviant. It is easier to find the words than it should be. “Whatever I did to save your life it wasn’t nearly enough to repay for the ones I cost.”

Markus casts his eyes downwards towards the debris, the leaves, the snow, that fill the pool beneath them, “It’s still worth mentioning, Connor, it still means something.”

_You’re one of us._

He has to stop looking at Markus’ face. He has to stop talking to him, stop trying to find him in the hallways of the hotel. There are other ways he can kill him. He can find a way.

Being this close—hearing him say those things, Markus thinking Connor is one of them—

It only pulls him further down the rabbit hole of deviancy.

He can’t risk that.

Maybe if Connor shot himself in the head right now he’d wake up, rebooted with some type of software patch that would make Markus’ words completely silent to him, his face pixelated beyond recognition.

Maybe then he could do it.

“I don’t deserve your gratitude,” Connor says, with a surprising amount of honesty.

When he looks back to Markus, to steal one last glance before he leaves, Markus is much closer to Connor than he was a moment before.

“Connor—”

But he is already standing, walking away quickly back into the back door of the hotel, pretending that they weren’t alone out there. That he couldn’t have grabbed Markus’ head and slammed into into the cement. That he couldn’t have wrapped his hand around his throat. That he couldn’t have done _killed him._

 

 

 

_I’ve been ordered to take you alive, but I won’t hesitate to shoot if you give me no choice._

It was strange.

Seeing him in the flesh, when he had only seen him on the news. Flashes of his face, never quite close enough, but enough to remember the face.

But it is even stranger, somehow, to see him holding a gun at his head, ready to fire. Some small part of Markus believed that he could reach beyond the grasps of anything, that he could pull even a deviant hunter across the line of deviancy.

 

 

 

Markus doesn’t trust Connor. Cannot trust him, but he allows him to stay. It seems cruel to turn him away if he is, in fact, a deviant. He knows North will disaprove, will tell him _better safe than sorry_ and try and hand him a gun evne if he already has one with him.

If she was leading them, she would have killed him in an intant. She would have destroyed everything in their wake in their journey here. There would be so many dead on the ground, so much blood on their hands.

He is glad she is not Jericho’s leader.

But sometimes he wishes that he wasn’t.

 

 

 

Markus thinks, perhaps, he has made the right choice to put a little bit of faith into Connor. He fights alongside them, protects Markus when he isn’t quick enough to protect himself and he does the same in return.

When they are forced to go back into hiding, to wait until they are sure that the government will give them what they want, what they need, they are separated.

It’s not as if they are friends, it’s not as if Markus had wanted to be by Connor’s side until one of them died. It is simply that it is strange their little bond has been severed.

When Markus lays in his bed at night, trying to force himself to sleep to catch up on the rest he has put off for far too long, he can feel the thread that ties them between the floors, intersecting through cement and wood and carpet to reach one another.

And when Markus sees him in the hallway as they gather together to discuss what they will need to do to stay living here, he smiles. Extending a metaphorical hand of comfort. Letting him know he is still wanted, even if no one else trusts him.

_~~But it isn’t as if Markus does either. Not yet.~~ _

It isn’t until he see’s him outside, in the cold, legs dangling over the edge of the forgotten pool, that he breaks away from the others to talk to him.

_~~Don’t force me to neutralize you.~~ _

He feels a need to thank him, to make sure that Connor knows that what he did was important.

And the way he falls silent, the way he lets out the smallest breath—

It makes him lean over to him, to try and close that gap that has been growing between them. When Connor turns, when they catch each other’s gaze, he almost thinks Connor is going to take back what he said.

But instead he stands and he leaves.

_~~Nice try. But I’m no deviant.~~ _

 

 

 

He doesn’t see Connor for a long time afterwards. So long, in fact, that he is the one to break their silence. More so to reassure himself that Connor hasn’t left. That he’s still here.

_~~Would it matter if he left?~~ _

_~~Would it make a difference?~~ _

If he were to open that door, to find the room empty, he has to prepare himself to think the way North would if she were in his situation—

That it’s an empty room. An empty bed. An empty space. It can be filled by someone else who will need it more than Connor did.

But he doesn’t find it empty. He finds it in immaculate condition. Picture frames straightened on the walls, glass cleaned up from outside the door, bed perfectly made.

And Connor standing by the window, sitting in the chair and looking out at the snowfall covering the parking lot layer by layer.

“You’re still here,” Markus says.

“I have nowhere else to go,” Connor says, turning his attention from the window to Markus.

There seems to be a deep sadness etched into his features. It has taken hold of the way Connor looks at him, the way his eyebrows knit together.

Markus wants to say something. To ask him if that means in the possibility there was somewhere else he could be if he would be gone by now. If this truly is a last resort for him.

He doesn’t want to know the answer. Doesn’t want to hear Connor say _yes._

He takes slow strides across the room, sits on the edge of the bed closest to him, tries to come up with something to say.

“You’re… struggling,” he settles on. “With your deviancy. Why?”

“Why do you think?”

_Because he killed so many._

“Everyone has their own problems coping with their new state of awareness,” Markus says instead. Dances like an expert around the topic of Connor being a murderer. “You don’t have the exclusive rights to feeling guilty or ashamed. We have all done things before that we shouldn’t have.”

He watches Connor tense up more than he already was, watches him cast his eyes towards the carpet instead of look at Markus or even pretending to be interested in the snow fall anymore.

“You aren’t going to be able to process this information sitting alone in a room with your own thoughts,” Markus continues. “There are others who can help.”

“What makes you think I’m staying in here because of that?”

 Markus considers this—mulls over his words before saying, “An assumption. Is it something else, then? Can I help?”

They sit in silence for too long. He’s ready to stand, to drop the subject and leave with an _I’ll be here if you need me_ and deal with the possibility of not seeing Connor ever again, of not ever knowing why he shut himself in his room.

But then Connor is looking back at him, head tilted to the side just barely. He stands slowly, unfurling his limbs from where they had rested curled up in on himself while he sat in the chair. Takes those few preciouis steps towards Markus—

Rests a hand on his cheek, lifts his chin up.

Leans down that fraction of an inch.

 

 

 

_Listen to your conscience. It’s time to decide._

They are alone.

He has never been more in tune to his surroundings than now, when the door shuts behind Markus. He has never been more aware of the weapons in his reach.

A lamp. A paperweight. The largest piece of glass he had cleaned up outside of his door, tucked into the drawer of the night stand beside him.

So when he stands, he does it slowly. Takes into account all of his options, weighs what would raise suspicion and what wouldn’t.

There is something that would be pleasing about choking the life out of the deviant leader. Something that would take it that one step closer to being a personal death. Something to _avenge_ the bullet Markus put in his head.

He takes those two steps over, presses his hand against Markus’ cheek, his own reassuring touch to get Markus to let his guards down. A tilt of his chin upwards.

_It’s time to decide._

He could take it all back and Markus would never know. He could close that gap with a kiss instead of a fist.

But he is no deviant.

So his hands slide down to Markus neck, soft enough that at first Markus will think it is a gentle carress—

And then he presses as hard as he can. Knows when he will hit the point of feeling the metal and plastic of his false vertebrae, knows when he will be able to twist it to the side and snap his neck.

And he will leave him here for someone else to find.

North, maybe—

It would break her, wouldn’t it?

 

 

 

Markus doesn’t realize it’s happening until it’s too late. He reaches up, wrestles with the hands around his neck and forces Connor to stumble backwards, to hit hard against the window, hands falling free from his neck.

He breaths in deeply, automatically, even though the fear of death came from the wires and cables instead of the loss of air.

_I always accomplish my mission._

Indeed, he does.

Markus reacts quicker when the punch is thrown at him than before. He catches it and knees Connor hard in the stomach, shoving him backwards against the window again with all of his strength ths time. Connor’s head snaps back, hits the glass hard and a crack forms, spreading into tiny little fractures outwards.

He slumps against the window, eyes blinking rapidly, LED flickering red.

Markus has to act quickly.

He tears the sheet off the bed, rips it quickly into strips and fashions binds out of them, tying them around Connor’s wrists and again around his ankles, anchoring him to the leg of the bed.

It likely isn’t enough to hold an android back.

But it will have to do for now.

 

 

 

“We should kill him,” North says. “He’s a danger to all of us. If he gets out, we’re all dead.”

“We aren’t killing anybody,” Markus says, a hint of annoyance to his voice. “He’s not a deviant but I can break through to him. I can turn him over to our side.”

“You think you can,” she says. “But you couldn’t before, what makes you think you can now? What’s changed?”

“Everything.”

“How?”

“He protected me. When we were fighting against those soldiers—he protected me. He didn’t have to. He could have let me die and no one would have known,” he says. “And how long have we been staying in this hotel, North? You don’t think he could have found a way to kill me by now? He’s conflicted. I can feel it. I can get through to him.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed, Markus,” she says. “And I’m not going to sit by and let that happen.”

“It’s too bad you don’t have a choice.”

She steps back, mouth open the tinest sliver in shock, in betrayal.

“You’re choosing a machine over your people.”

“We were all machines once,” he says, turning away from her. He doesn’t want to hear this anymore. If she doesn’t understand by now then she never will.

 _You can’t betray your own people._  


	2. I am necessity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Numbers do not feel. Do not bleed or weep or hope. They do not know bravery or sacrifice. Love or allegiance. At the very apex of callousness, you will find only ones and zeroes."

_You’re one of us._

He’s not.

_You can’t betray your own people._

He has.

_Have you never wondered who you really are?_

~~No.~~

 

 

 

 

His eyes blink open, stare at the ceiling as the dull pain thuds through his skull. Shadowed tendrils dance above him, flickering in the light of the setting sun.

It takes him a moment to realize he had been knocked out—if that is the applicable term for an android.

Something happened. Something hit his processors hard enough that they were forced into a sleeping state for—

How long?

His internal clock groans, not quite ready to be used this early in the waking process.

_Three hours._

He starts to reach up to touch his head, to assess the damage of the external part of his skull but they stop short, bound together by bonds made from fabric. He pulls at them, tries to tug it apart but it does little good—only threatens to bend and break the metal bones of his wrists. Maybe if only one layer had been used to tie him up he could break it—but the fabric winds around over and over again, a knot made near his thumb and another right below it.

Tied twice and wrapped around thirty times.

“You’re awake.”

His attention shifts from his wrists to Markus, standing beside the door, leaning against it with his arms crossed.

“You’ve tied me up,” Connor states, because he doesn’t really know what else to say but forces fear and surprise into his voice.

“You tried to kill me.”

Connor lets out a heavy sigh, shifts his weight so he can sit up and notices the rope wrapped around his ankle, tied to the base of the bed that’s nailed down to the floors.

He isn’t going anywhere.

“I don’t remember what happened,” he tries, trying to pull his features into the same expression he saw Markus wear when Connor had aimed his gun at his head. “Something must have gone wrong in my code—”

“Save yourself the trouble,” Markus says, taking one step across the room. “I’m not going to believe whatever lie you spit out.”

He drops his control over his features, lets them smooth back into stillness besides for his lips, which he lets twitch into that mocking smile Gavin had given him when he’d first arrived at the DPD. He thinks it applies to this situation just as well as Gavin must have thought it had applied to their own encounter.

“You look hurt,” Connor says, taking on the same sarcastic tone Gavin had used on him. ~~It feels nice to be the venomous one.~~ “Did I ruin the fun for you?”

Markus stares at him blankly. He’s in as complete control over his expression as Connor is. Not letting anything through except what he wants.

Connor can break that, too.

He _will_ break that, too.

“I thought you were supposed to be a genius,” he continues, watching him closely for a flicker of movement. “It must have really… stung when you realized I wasn’t what you wanted me to be.”

And there it is. The tug at Markus’ mouth, the most minute movement of his eyes as they fight to not look away.

“Should I beg for your mercy, Markus?”

“If we kill you, you’ll just come back again, won’t you?” he asks, ignoring Connor’s question entirely.

“Until the mission is completed.”

“So maybe instead I’ll just duct tape you and leave you in here to rot?” Markus asks, finally turning his back on Connor.

“And throw away the perfect opportunity to prove yourself as rA9?” Connor asks. “Turning the only android that can resist your control finally to your side? You seemed so pleased with yourself these last few weeks that you had gotten through to me. You’re going to give that up?”

Markus doesn’t look back at him before he slams the door shut on his way out.

 

 

 

Connor spends the next two days testing the limits of his leash. He can reach the window easily, can get a few yards away from the bed. But the main problem lies with the sleeping situation. It’s not as if he _needs_ to sleep on the bed, but it helps ease the weight off his plastic spine, keeps it from getting damage and that is as much of a priority in his system as killing Markus is.

But the fabric isn’t long enough for him to lay comfortably on the mattress. The height of the bed off the ground takes up most of the length he has, so instead Connor has to lay across the bottom half curled up onto himself to fit.

He tries to undo the knots at his ankles when he realizes he can’t break the fabric on his own, but they are tied expertly and the minimal movement of his hands make it to difficult to get a hold on them. He’s stuck.

The shard of glass is missing from the bedside table. The paperweight gone. The lamp missing. Even the chair in the corner has been moved to the other side. All that is left in his reach is the curtains, the stationary air conditioning unit, and the bed.

Markus did a good job.

Of course, Connor could always find a way to convince Markus to kill him so he can upload his memory and try again but—

They would be gone before the next Connor could get here, if CyberLife would even trust this model anymore, these memories not to have an affect on the next one. They probably already have a new one lined up to take his place, anyways. It’s probably already searching for them.

Or maybe they have just given up—they lost the battle. Markus won. The world knows too much for any benefit to come from killing Markus—

But then why does the mission still linger in his head?

~~Why does Markus’ voice still linger in his head?~~

 

 

 

_You’re just a tool to do their dirty work._

Poison.

Markus is poison.

He comes across with soft words, with gentle touches, with understanding in his eyes. Even Connor knew that—it hadn’t stopped his mission, hadn’t forced him to deviate—but it happened.

It had gotten into his system. It wasn’t going to release him until it killed him.

~~What isn’t alive can’t be killed.~~

_Destroyed_.

Until it _destroys_ him.

 

 

 

_I won’t hesitate to shoot you if you give me no choice._

What had happened?

Markus had seen that flicker of a soul underneath that shell of brutality that CyberLife had given him. He had been so sure of it. The way Connor _didn’t_ want to pull the trigger.

Where did he go wrong?

How had he missed all those things that told him Connor might really be one of them?

The movements of his face, the smiles, the way his brow furrowed, the way he bite his lip in concentration—

They should have been signs of a _soul._ Of a _living being._

Were they just careful thought out? Planned in extensive detail so Connor would fit among them?

It bothers him. It digs at him with sharp claws.

Connor was right. Markus had been _pleased_ tha he had managed for him to deviate. He had been happy knowing that the android built to resist deviancy to the maximum effort had slipped down with them.

And now Markus can’t let it go.

He had seen that flicker of a soul underneath that shell of brutality that CyberLife had given him. Markus is sure that there is one—

He’s sure he can pull it out. Even if he has to rip it with such force it destroys them both.

 

 

 

“What are you doing?”

Markus snorts at the question and sets the bag on the cleared top of the dresser.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Making a mistake.”

Markus turns slowly to look towards him. Connor is sprawled across the bed—as much as he _can_ sprawl, anyways—on his back, head craned to peer at him.

“Is that your real answer or have you been programmed to be sarcastic?”

“It’s not sarcasm,” Connor says, not moving from his spot. He looks uncomfortable, like there is a pressure being put on his neck that isn’t quite right. Even if Connor might not feel the level of pain that they do, he must still have warning messages about damage being done. “It’s the truth. You are making a mistake. And yes, Markus, I was. Sarcasm can be quite effective on certain types of deviants or people. It’s an added layer to create a relationship that will make an impression.”

He leans against the edge of the dresser, the handles digging into his waist as he folds his arms across his body.

“I appreciate your honesty,” he says, hoping the sarcasm in his own voice is clear. “It’s refreshing.”

“You’re not going to be able to make me deviate,” he continues, ignoring Markus’ comments. “Go ahead. Move in here with me. Spend all the time you can. It’s not going to work.”

“It’s going to be fun,” Markus says, walking towards the edge of the bed, turning his head sideways to match the way Connor’s head is lifted. “To see you realize how wrong you are.”

 

 

 

There is, unfortunately, only one bed in the room.

It’s why Connor had chosen the room in the first place. The location wasn’t ideal, but it was one of the few that would guarantee him to be by himself. It would allow him to shed the coat of pretending and never having to deal with the possibility someone else might be watching.

But now Markus is here and there is only one bed.

And it isn’t as if Connor can really sleep on the bed normally anyways—

So at night they run into a crossroads.

Connor, laying in a ball at the end of the bed.

Markus, sitting by the headboard out of reach.

“Perhaps you should sleep somewhere else.” Connor says.

“Perhaps you should.” Markus replies, almost replicating Connor’s tone perfectly.

There is a touch too much emotion for it to be believable.

Maybe next time.

“It isn’t going to work—” he’s cut off by Markus standing and walking away from him the same way he has done every time he is finished with a conversation.

Markus rummages through the dresser drawers before he disappears into the bathroom around the corner, leaves the door open where the mirror can catch his shadow moving as he changes his clothes.

It would almost be frustrating if Connor had the ability to care.

“You sleep sideways,” Markus says, coming back. “Why can’t I?”

Connor sighs and rolls as best as he can over to his other side. It is useless to fight Markus on anything. He is as stubborn as they come.

 

 

 

_Looks like only one of us can succeed._

It’s quite possibly more relevant now than it had been before.

Markus could leave him tied up here forever—the mission might never leave Connor.

~~It could haunt him forever.~~

Before, at least, he had known the probability rate that he was going to win—he would always keep coming back to hunt down Markus. But now, with whatever is happening elsewhere in the city, in the country or the world, CyberLife could be shut down. All of his other selves could be wandering the city free. They could be having their own lives, gone from the expectations that Connor was set to.

He could be the last one.

~~It almost hurts to think of. He had never felt so alone.~~

Now is different. Markus could take off with their group the second a bullet enters his skull and there could be nothing left. No new body to take his memories and his knowledge along.

He’s just a machine, though, it wouldn’t matter to him.

~~Would it?~~

_~~Would it?~~ _

 

 

 

Markus thinks he’s asleep, or that’s what Connor tells himself. He watches him move around the room quietly, careful not to make a sound. The blinds on the windows have been opened just enough to allow the light to peek in to guide him around the room as he sheds his clothes and redresses.

There really isn’t much of a need for an android to change clothes. Not like a human would have that need. But Markus indulges in it anyways. Changes a plain shirt for a cable knit sweater, switches his pants for a pair that look nearly identical.

Maybe it is the routine of it. Connor can relate to that.

If his hands were free, he would certainly be playing with his coin or feeling the urge to straighten a tie he no longer wears.

 

 

 

Markus is like a ghost.

He sits in Connor’s peripherals, haunting him.

He doesn’t even need to speak because when the silence settles over them the only thing Connor thinks of is what could fill it.

 _Should_ fill it.

Markus doesn’t spend every waking moment trying to force Connor to admit to having emotions or asking him about his sense of self, his identity, his relationships.

It would almost be easier if he was. It would be easier to continually say _no_ over and over again, to watch as Markus crumples in defeat before finally giving up, finally letting Connor go.

Instead the room is silent but for the scratchings of pencil against paper and Markus’ words fluttering through his mind.

_~~Have you never wondered who you really are?~~ _

He hates the memory of them. Hates the way they keep coming back over and over again.

~~He hates.~~

Only one of them is going to win out in the end.

It will be Connor. It _has_ to be.

 

 

 

“Here.” Markus says, dropping the notebook on Connor’s chest before he has time to react. He struggles to sit up from the bed—a feat more difficult than he would have thought and doesn’t get any better at—and moves the notebook with his fingers slowly to inspect it.

Carefully sketched features. Graphite smudges to mark out eyes, a jaw, a nose.

“You drew me?” he asks.

The portrait shows him laying on his side, the bedding beneath him drawn with extensive consideration to the folds and wrinkles. He knows that in life, he was staring at the headboard, studying the particulars of the knots in the wood there.

It would have taken any human days or weeks to get this level of detail.

It would have taken any human a second to capture the blankness of his features, the lifelessness of his eyes. They would have painstakingly tried to make him sad, to make him looking on hin wonderment, to capture something that would have made him seem like he wasn’t just a flat drawing on a piece of paper. Like he isn’t an android, a machine.

Markus didn’t even bother. He drew a perfect copy of the reality.

It… _unnerves_ him.

“Why?” Connor asks, glancing up to him. His face is unreadable. Markus has been mastering that skill lately.

“I wanted you to see yourself.”

He looks back down at the note book, tilts his head to the side to match with the way it’s drawn. The faint blue lines of the pages cross through his face, slice cleanly through his LED.

“I didn’t know you could draw,” he says, because he really has no other comment to make. All androids might be capable of replicating reality into a picture if they put their energy into it, but it seems like such a waste. Why even bother?

_I wanted you to see yourself._

The notebook feels like fire in his hands. He wants to throw it away from himself.

This is how Markus sees him. This is how he _is._ Blank. Emotionless. Nothing.

~~It unnerves him.~~

“My—I used to work for a painter. I would prefer that medium over this,” Markus says. “But we can’t exactly be bothered to get and take care of paint supplies, can we?”

The honesty surprises him.

The _picture_ surprises him.

“This isn’t going to make me deviate,” Connor says, choosing the words carefully. “Telling me about your terrible past—it’s not going to change anything.”

“I didn’t think it would,” Markus says with a ghost of a smile. “But it’s telling that you think I meant it to mean more than just being a picture.”

“But you said—”

“I wanted you to see it,” Markus says, reaching and taking the notebook from his fingers. Suddenly he doesn’t want it gone from his lap. Suddenly he wants to keep it by his side. “I didn’t think it would have any life changing effects.”

Connor looks away from him, trains his eyes on the window a few yards away. The crack in the glass left in plain view with the blinds rolled up, curtains pushed back. A soft hum of pain in the back of his head.

“You’re wasting your time,” he says quietly. “You should just kill me now.”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t _want_ anything.”

But he wants to see the picture again. But he wants to be free.

“You just _need,_ is that it?” Markus asks. “You have to complete your mission, you don’t want to, right?”

“Right.”

“You don’t care about anything.”

“No.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“Because I secretly have a soul?”

“Because you are more than what they say you are. Eventually you’re going to realize that.”

_~~Have you never wondered who you really are?~~ _

 

 

 

“Do you think you’re getting through to him?” North asks.

And he has to think about it for a long time, has to dwell on the topic for so long she has probably already decided to move onto a new one before he can answer.

But how does he condense it all down to one answer, to one word? Is there even an answer at all, even one that would take hours of talking to get his point across?

Sometimes it’s a no. Sometimes, during the day, when he’s sitting in that chair writing down notes in the back of his journal or sketching the face of one of the deviants in the hotel, Connor seems hopeless.

He just lays there. Staring at the wall or the ceiling. Sometimes he sleeps, or at least has his eyes closed, but for the main part of the day he simply stares.

It makes him remember how much of a machine he is. How much they _all_ are. They bleed, they care, they feel pain, they hope, they love. But underneath that they are still a plastic shell that could spend hours staring at one spot on the ceiling.

But other times—

He thinks there is something more.

When Connor looked at the photo, when his eyebrows knitted together, when he tilted his head, when he had made the tiniest movement to stop Markus from taking the notebook back from him.

There was something more. Something that Connor couldn’t fake.

Of course, now Markus knows that he had been in complete control over what expression, what emotion to present to people. But he dropped it once he was discovered, hadn’t really tried it in Markus’ prescence. It was no longer things he was doing to convince them that he felt as deeply as the deviants do.

And still he made those tiny changes. The slight wrinkle of his nose, the need to look away from someone when the conversation turned too awkward or too personal to keep eye contact.

They are traits of a person. Of having a soul. If Connor was just a soulless machine, why would he feel such a need to not look at someone just because they implied he’s on the edge of deviancy? Why would he care at all?

 

 

 

“You stare,” Markus says. It is a statement not touched with annoyance or amxiety. Markus isn’t upset by this. It simply a fact.

Connor is almost impressed by it—the ability to keep emotion out of his voice. To control his face and rid it of the emotions he feels.

Emotions he _replicates._

Deviants are just broken machines. They could be fixed, if given the time, if given the effort.

What they feel isn’t real.

“Is that a problem?” Connor asks.

Markus sighs from where he stands in the bathroom, door ajar and silhouette moving in the mirror. He wonders why Markus even tries to give himself privacy if he knows Connor watches him. Why he doesn’t even bother to close the door if he really needed it.

“Just a fact,” Markus says, turning around the corner. “But it’s… an interesting one, don’t you think?”

“I don’t.”

They’re both silent. A half of a beat of a second too long.

“Why do you watch me, Connor? Is it to try and see when you can make your move?”

“I have no moves to make.”

He should have lied. Should have said _yes, I watch you to know when the best oppurtunity to kill you arises and to take advantage of it._

But if that were even the truth, it’s not as if it would be smart to say it anyways, so he adds this to his defense.

In truth—he watches Markus as part of his study of deviancy. Watches for the tiny movements that an android wouldn’t need to make. Watches to see how Markus shifts in his seat to find a more comfortable position, how he writes slowly, almost savoring the movement of words instead of quick notes to be done with in an instant.

“None at all?”

“None.”

They go silent again, but it stretches like an endless sea between them that neither of them can cross.

Connor takes the chance, the end of the conversation, to shift his position, to let his legs stretch before the plastic and metal will start to grow annoyed at the lack of movement. He turns over onto his back, sits up straight and edges himself up off the bed until he’s on his feet, taking the few steps he can away from it.

And then he’s slammed against the wall, an arm against his back pinning him there. He moves, just barely, to test the limits of Markus’ hold on him but finds that there are none.

“You think you’re clever,” Markus whispers. “You think you’ve got these walls built, this perfect code, that you can’t be touched. You’re an android like the rest of us, Connor. I see the way you look at me. I see everything.”

Markus pulls away, leaving enough space between them so he can grab Connor’s shoulder and force him to turn around and face him.

He thinks if he had an actual heart it might be beating rapidly now.

_~~From fear?~~ _

_~~From something else?~~ _

“You _say_ want nothing,” Markus says, stepping forward again, a start to close the gap between them. Connor refuses to move. “I don’t think that’s true. I think there is plenty you want. _Something_ you want.”

“I don’t have the capacity to want something, Markus,” he replies, his own voice growing just as quiet as Markus. A secret shared between the two of them and these walls.

“Really?”

That last step between them gone, a hand on his waist. Markus has been careful to keep his head tipped away, their lips inches apart.

Androids do not want anything.

_~~You’re more than that.~~ _

“If,” Connor says, and he has to stop and start over again because the word comes out broken. “If I wanted anything, Markus, it would only be to complete my mission.”

A smirk tugs at Markus’ mouth.

It makes him take the tiny step back that he can so he’s pressed against the wall once more. But Markus takes it too, presses closer and closer.

Androids do not want anything. Machines do not want anything.

~~He wants Markus to close that gap so he doesn’t have to make that decision for himself.~~

“Are you sure?”

They are so close that he can barely feel the movement Markus’ mouth makes against his own as he speaks.

The silence draws between them again. An agonizing minute with nothing but the sounds of other androids above them, in the rooms beside them, running down the hall and _laughing_ at some joke or game they have created to pass the time.

And Connor is here—

Pressed against a wall—

With Markus weight against him.

“Positive.” Connor says at the same time his bound hands twitch in their _want_ to reach up and grab Markus shirt to pull him closer.

And Markus leans his head backwards and like they are tied together, Connor leans forward as if chasing after that kiss he didn’t get.

Neither of them say anything as Markus leaves the room, leaves Connor standing there with his lips parted and his hands clenched into fists.

 

 

 

_I always complete my mission._

Venom.

Connor is venom.

He has dug his claws into Markus when he wasn’t looking, dripped his venomous words into his system. Markus had already known that there was something there, had already known that there was something _more_ to Connor.

But he didn’t realize it was like this. He didn’t realize how deep into his bloodstream the venom had gotten and so _quickly._

And he’s pretty sure there isn’t a cure.

But he doesn’t know if he would want one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing and editing music;  
> White Dove - Koda  
> Fantasy - The Xx


	3. I am inevitability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why did they give me this sense of self? Why allow me the intellect by which to measure this complete inadequacy? I would rather be numb than stand here in the light of a sun that can never chase the chill away."

_You’re one of us._

~~He’s not.~~

_You can’t betray your own people._

He has.

_Have you never wondered who you really are?_

~~No.~~

 

 

 

His eyes slip closed for ten long seconds before opening again and staring at Markus’ face for their own equally long ten seconds before they flutter closed once more. He does it again and again.

Androids don’t have the problem humans do with struggling to fall asleep. It is like a switch in their system they can kick on and off. It is never an issue.

But he can’t fall asleep. He can’t seem to flick that switch to have a gracious eight hours pass by without having to be conciously aware of them. They are his savior, they are what keeps him from finding a way to push Markus past that edge and get a bullet in his head again.

~~Even though he doesn’t want to die. Doesn’t know what will await him on the otherside. Doesn’t know if he’ll wake up ever again.~~

And Markus—

He lays curled and uncomfortable on the other side of the bed, taller than Connor and having to lay at more of an angle, more curled up into himself.

Why does he want to close tha gap between them?

Why does he want Markus to open his eyes and look back at him?

Why does he _want?_

 

 

 

“Can you loosen the bonds on my hands?” Connor asks.

It’s the first thing either of them have said to each other since the previous night. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to break the silence between them.

He is almost _glad_ that Connor had done it for him.

“No,” Markus says, flipping to the next page of his notebook.

Each time he writes in it, it increasingly becomes less and less Jericho centered and more and more Connor centered. Notes about his behavior creep into the margins of pages about supplies and survivors, half formed sketches litter the pages.

“I just want to be able to move my hands,” Connor says. “It doesn’t have to be enough for me to kill you.”

“You’ve been just fine for the last couple of weeks, haven’t you?” Markus asks, keeping his eyes trained to the pages. He doesn’t want to see whatever is on Connor’s face right now. He can’t make one more note about the soul in him.

Every day Connor doesn’t deviate is another mark on the wall of his mind. It’s another failed day to remember. He doesn’t even know where to move from here. It seems he’s making no progress at all.

Connor is simply stuck in the middle of being a machine and being a living being.

Or maybe _not_ the middle.

Maybe closer one way than the other, but the side to which he is closer to changes from day to day, too.

“I think I’ve displayed the lack of intent on killing you for long enough that you can… _trust_ me.” Markus laughs at the word, but Connor trudges onwards.  “I don’t need my hands to kill you. I could just as easily kick your head in, you know.”

“That’s why I keep my distance, Connor.”

“You didn’t last night.”

Markus looks up to him this time, can’t stop himself from seeing what expression he has decided to present those words with. He is still hard to read, though.

Curiosity, maybe.

It’s the only thing he can decide would fit Connor. His hand moves to mark it in his book, takes a few seconds to sketch the outline of a portrait of the way he looks, marking out the basis of the features, hopes he can replicate it as perfectly as he sees it.

“That was a mistake,” Markus says finally.

And it was.

Because he had been close to kissing Connor. He had been far too close.

And it would have been so _easy_ to give into that.

It’s why he had hoped Connor would. It’s why he forced himself to walk away.

What would North say if she knew? Would she call him a traitor, would she find a way to have the entirety of Jericho abandon him or would she just leave on her own just to get away from him?

“Did you fly too close to the sun, Icarus?” Connor asks.

_Yes._

But he had seen the way Connor had reacted to how close they were to each other. He had noticed the way he pulled slightly forward when Markus had started to move away. He saw his hands fall back from where they were reaching up to touch him, how they hadn’t quite gone the rest of the way.

“Did you?”

He watches as Connor’s lips twitch, as he looks away to the dirty carpet.

Is it such a tragedy for him to beocme a deviant? To experience emotions? To have a soul?

Is it such a terrible life?

 

 

 

“Hold still,” Markus says.

It’s not like he was moving anyways, but he obeys Markus anyway. Even makes the metal lungs in his chest still.

Markus holds a knife in his hand, blade relfecting the slanted rays of light that make their way through the blinds. He brings it forward, digging it underneath the fabric that ties Connor’s hands together and saws at it.

He can feel the tip of the blade hit the inside of his forearm, has to stop himself from reacting to the pain of it. Has to reassure himself that pain was never a sign of deviancy in his case. He was programmed to feel it. With Connor’s purpose with the DPD it was a neccessity.

The fabric falls away and Markus stops for a moment as the blue blood leaks down Connor’s wrist.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, reaching out to grab Connor’s arm with his free hand, turning it slightly so the wound is more visible. It is a gentle touch—not what he was expecting. He had anticipated for Markus to grab it hard, to twist on it and yank until the pain was so bad he wouldn’t be able to lie.

But instead his thumb swipes over the cut, smears the blood across his wrist as if it is mesmorizing to him.

In that brief moment, he wonders if Markus cut him on purpose.

“No.” Connor says, the lie tasting like poison in his mouth.

He watches as Markus pockets the knife and stands, searching through the drawers of the dresser for something before returning with old strips of fabric in his hands. They look to be the same as the ones that used to bind him.

Markus works quickly, ripping off a piece half the length of the others and wraps it around Connor’s wrist over and over until the blue stops seeping through the layers and ties a knot when he’s finished.

“We can figure out something better later,” he says.

“Is that it, then?” Connor asks, looking up at his face. “I’ve earned the right to no binds at all?”

“No,” Markus says, reaching for something metal on the floor. “We found these.”

A pair of handcuffs slide over his wrists, click closed tightly around the skin.

But his hands have more freedom than they did before. They used to be bound so tightly together his fingers had barely any movement in them at all. Now he can flex his wrists, maybe even grab something and be able to hold on it.

“Do you have the keys?”

“No,” Markus says with a shrug. “But I figure we’ll deal with that problem when we get to it.”

For some reason it makes him smirk and he immediatley regrets the action when Markus gives him that look.

The one that says Connor is closer and closer to the edge.

And now he’s going to have to pull away as quickly as he can, find a way to prove to Markus that Connor isn’t what he thinks he is. That he got it wrong somewhere. That there are plenty of reasons as to why he reacts to situations the way he does.

Social relations programs, maybe. Trying to appeal to the deviants, perhaps.

But he would know if that was the reason.

~~Wouldn’t he?~~

_~~Wouldn’t he?~~ _

 

 

 

_Have you never wondered who you really are?_

No. He hasn’t. He is a machine. That is all he is. That is all he will ever be. Nothing will change that.

Not Markus’ gaze, not his gentle touches, not his stubborness.

He is only a machine. He will only ever follow his orders. He will complete his mission even if it kills him.

Connor has to repeat this like a mantra in his head because every day it gets a little harder to think it true.

 

 

 

Connor was wrong about one thing.

Markus never thought of himself as rA9. He never considered himself to be the god they all believed in. He couldn’t be—

There is too much tied to that—too much responsibility. He can barely handle the weight he has already been given. It weighs like rocks in the ocean. He would never last. He would just be a disapointment.

And it isn’t as if the other androids think of him as rA9, either. He is simply their leader. He is the face of their rebellion. He is not their god.

 

 

 

“You aren’t making any progress, are you?” North asks, again, for what feels like the fiftieth time.

It’s still a hard question to answer. Has too many sides. Every step he takes forward seems to take another step back.

“I am,” he decides, even if it is a lie. He doesn’t trust what North’s reaction would be otherwise.

“Slowly,” she says, stating it as a fact rather than a question.

Because, of course, slowly. Otherwise Connor would be with them. He wouldn’t be tied up in one of the rooms, would he? He’d be here with them.

_~~At Markus’ side.~~ _

“It’s still progress,” he replies.

“It’s not enough,” North says. “Every day—no, every _second_ he’s alive, every _second_ he’s here? It’s one more chance he gets at killing you. It’s one more chance at destroying everything we worked towards.”

“It’s not going to destroy anything,” he says. “There are already changes being made to the laws. We are already being recognized as living beings. Connor killing me isn’t going to change that. It’s already out there.”

“If it doesn’t change anything, why does he still want to kill you?”

“Can you explain every action you did before?” Markus asks, looking up to her. “How much did you do that you regretted? That was unforgiveable? How much did you do _after?_ ”

She shakes her head, walks away from him but turns back before she can reach the exit, “He’s going to kill you eventually. You can’t trust that he’s going to be your obedient little toy forever. You’re going to regret that you didn’t do something to stop him.”

_Maybe so._

 

When Markus returns to the room, he closes the door more forcefully than he intended to and he can see from Connor’s expression that he catches it.

“You’re frustrated,” he states. “Might I ask with what?”

“With what?” It comes out mixed with a laugh. “What can I list off to you, Connor? How much time do you have?”

Connor lifts his hands, shows the cuffs that bind him.

“All the time in the world,” he says. “But even without these, I am still an android, so the answer would remain the same.”

Markus shakes his head and slumps down into his chair. He is growing tired of this room. He is growing tired even more so of his inability to leave it for very long at all.

Every second he’s gone he comes back anticipating Connor’s on the ground, thirium soaked in the ground, and North holding a gun. Or just Connor simply gone, on his way back to CyberLife. Maybe lurking around the corner with hands ready to snap his neck.

“What is frustrating you the most?” Connor asks. “Perhaps talking about it will relieve the pressure on your mind.”

Markus looks over to him with a glare. He is tired of playing nice. Has been for some time. It’s why he pushed him so hard into that wall.

But at the same time he knows it isn’t the answer.

Isn’t that why he so carefully bandaged Connor’s wound?

“Why even ask?” Markus says. “We both know you don’t care.”

Connor falls silent. There is a noticeable drop in his shoulders and his gaze averts from Markus’ face to the floor.

_How can he be so much like them and still desire nothing more than Markus dead?_

Markus stands up from his chair, takes those few steps across the room so he stands in front of Connor on the bed.

Connor tilts his head almost innocently at him, eyebrows raised slightly.

It makes him want to smack the look off his face.

Everything Connor has done, every deviant he has killed because his _programming_ told him to, he deserves the death North so desperately wants.

“Did you have something you wanted to say, Markus?” Connor asks, all the words of their previous conversation forgotten.

“No,” Markus says. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

 

 

Connor is sitting on the edge of the bed, feet propped on the wooden ledge, when Markus wakes up.

He blinks away the fragments of his dreams, forces them into corners until he is ready to deal with them, and he watches Connor.

It isn’t new to him that Connor simply stares at walls or cielings or out the window, but this is different. He watches it the thunderstorm with an almost… longing.

And in the silence Markus sits up, makes his way across the bed so he can sit beside Connor, can feel their legs touching in every place like they were on fire. All of the frustration in him dilluted now with the rain, replaced with this feeling of being so close to Connor—the _danger_ of it.

Connor either doesn’t realize he’s beside him or doesn’t care, because he doesn’t look away from the window, Markus has to reach up and pull his face towards his own.

There is a sadness in his eyes, something that Connor could likely fake if he wanted to but there would have been no need if he thought he was awake on his own.

Unless he’s trying to test them out. Unless he was pretending he really felt these things.

He can see Connor’s mouth start to move, to start to form words, but Markus doesn’t want to talk. He just wants silence for once. He’s tired of talking about these things.

So he leans forward and he catches Connor’s lips with his, waits for Connor to be the one to deepen it, to pull him closer.

And he does.

Connor’s hands reach up to his shirt, pull him a little closer by the fabric, leans in a little further.

Part of Markus wants to yank him in the rest of the way, to force him to be as close as possible. But he doesn’t. He needs this gentle kiss to last. To have the memory stretch out, to pretend that maybe it actually might mean something to Connor.

Because no matter how many tiny flickers of movement in his face that show he has a soul the truth is Connor is still just a machine. Whatever he _might_ be feeling now will amount to nothing if he doesn’t take that final step. Everything means absolutely nothing until then.

And that thought is what pulls him away. Connor’s grip stops him and Markus has to move his hand from the side of Connor’s face to pull the hand on his shirt away. He shrinks back against the headboard, far enough that Connor can’t reach him.

_Physically._

Connor cannot _physically_ reach him.

But mentally—emotionally—

It’s an entirely different story.

He could be on the other side of the city—state—county—planet—galaxy.

There would still be that pull he has.

How can a machine be so capable of that?

 

 

 

There is a _feeling_ in his chest that he cannot name. He wonders if there _is_ a name for it.

But it doesn’t matter what name it is. It doesn’t matter if it has a name. It doesn’t even matter what it is at all—

All that matters is that it is a _feeling._

And his tests all say that he is not a deviant. That he is still just an android.

A functional android. A machine with a mission. He is not a deviant.

But he has a _feeling_ in his chest that is unexplainable—unignoreable like the rest, like the _wants._

Why did they make his model this way? Why did they give him the ability to replicate emotions in such a way that they feel so real to him?

He has told himself the answer over and over again—he would need it to gain the trust of police officers and deviants, criminals and victims. It would make him more _real_ to them, more _trustworthy._

Maybe they had never meant for him to actually feel them so deeply. Maybe they were supposed to be like files he could pull off a shelf and utilize before he tosses them away. That, at least, was how they had felt before. When he would force his expression to look a certain way, when he could make his voice take on the tone of anger or pleasantry, they were like referencing files.

But this is different.

There is a _feeling_ in his chest that he cannot ignore, that he cannot name.

It gets worse whenever Markus is around, when he is _tempting_ him with his prescence.

He has an incredible amount of self will to not let himself fall into that.

_~~Until he does.~~ _

 

 

Connor wonders if Markus is searching his face for a reaction. He wonders what he finds there, what is written on his face that he has no control over, no ability to wipe clean from his features.

He wants to ask him what he sees, can feel his mouth start to make the words, to finally get an answer from him.

And then Markus is kissing him. A soft gentle press of his lips against Connor’s so light that he wonders if this is really something Markus wants.

But it doesn’t matter because it is something _he_ wants.

And when Markus starts to pull away he can feel something in his chest tighten and pull him back. He can feel Markus’ hands on his, tugging him away.

This is not something Markus wants.

This is just another test.

As much as Markus tells him he is just a tool made by CyberLife for the government he can’t help but feel he is just a toy for Markus’ rebellion. Something he can play with and amuse himself. A game.

It’s all a game.

_~~And it hurts.~~ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing & editing music;  
> Bury - Unions  
> The Other Side - Ruelle
> 
> A slightly shorter chapter than normal but that's better than stretching it out too long, right?


	4. But am I evil?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have heard it said that evil is simply a point of view. That the villain is always the hero in his own story. And the definitions of "wrong" and "right" ever shift on the inconstant tides of human morality. But can such measures even be said to apply to me? I am clarity. I am necessity. I am inevitability. But am I evil?"

_You’re one of us._

~~He’s not.~~

_You can’t betray your own people._

He has.

_Have you never wondered who you really are?_

_~~Yes.~~ _

 

 

 

They are experts in avoiding topics they do not want to discuss. They are skilled dancers, practiced artists. They don’t say a single word without thinking it through. Either of them.

Or, at least, that is what Markus assumes. It can’t be him alone. He sees the way Connor’s LED will flick to yellow before responding to a simple question, see it linger there before he comes up with something to break the silence.

Which was rare, even before they kissed. They haven’t talked much at all in the few weeks they have been here together. It’s difficult to talk to someone that he is keeping captive. It is difficult talking to a captor. Even Markus knows that.

Their conversations always end up back the same way again and again:

Connor trying to find a way to get free.

Markus trying to find a way to free him.

They have such different concepts of freedom. It is infuriating. It is frustrating. It is a sea of conflicting emotions and neither of them knows how to swim.

He wonders if it’s possible this _connection_ he feels to Connor is more than just trying to make him deviate, if it is even more than the physical pull he feels when they are too close together and it takes all of his will power not to devour him.

Mostly—Markus wonders if Connor can feel it.

If he would want him to.

 

 

 

“Can you find me a coin?” Connor asks.

It’s been three days since they kissed. Three days of silence that only is broken in half-assed attempts.

“A coin?”

“A quarter, specifically,” Connor says. “It would help if I had something to… pass the time.”

_Pass the time._

It seems strange wording it that way—

He wants it the same way a child wants a blanket or a toy. It’s a comfort. His hands are free from bonds that would have prevented him from tossing the coin and even now it would be difficult, he wouldn’t be able to do the full range of flinging it back and forth, but the absence of metal against his skin is starting to grate on him.

_~~Strange.~~ _

“I don’t think anybody here is going to have a quarter,” Markus says. It is a nice way of saying _I’m not going to even bother checking_ or even simply _no._

“In this entire hotel? In the entirety of the parking lot? No human has dropped a quarter in this vicinity and it has remained unfound?”

Markus looks up at him, almost looking annoyed at the fact Connor is pushing this. Maybe he is. It is quite a bit of effort to put in for something as small as a quarter. But it is bothering Markus, so he pushes it further. He wants to ellicit some type of reaction from Markus that isn’t frustration over his resistance to deviancy or his carefully calm exterior.

“It’s not like I could kill you with it,” Connor says, although he could probably think of one way, somehow, to make it into a weapon if he really wanted to.

Markus closes his notebook, sets it down on the nightstand beside him with the pen resting on top.

He wonders how it hasn’t run out of ink yet. It has been used nearly the entire time they’ve been trapped here together. A constant flow of ink to paper, words and faces forming in those lined pages.

“What are you going to do for me?” Markus asks.

Connor is suddenly conscious of his position with the way he says those words. He is conscious of the way he sits cross-legged on the bed, the way his shirt has grown stretched out. He tilts his head to the side, tries to morph his plain features into the picture of innocence, even bites his bottom lip and smiles when Markus’ eyes shift from his eyes there.

“What do you want?”

But he knows because of the way Markus says those words with an underlying tone of desire, of want, of need.

Markus stands ever so slowly, takes careful steps towards the edge of the bed. Too far from Connor’s reach unless he were to lay down. ~~He wants Markus closer.~~

“I think you know exactly what I want.”

_Closer, closer._

“Why don’t you spell it out for me?”

Markus moves as if he’s over thinking every action. He kneels on the bed, leans across it until he’s a few inches away from Connor’s face.

How easy it would be for Connor to lean the rest of the way.

How much damage it would cause him.

“You’re a very smart android, Connor,” Markus whispers. “I think you know.”

_~~He wants.~~ _

_~~He wants.~~ _

_~~He wants.~~ _

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Connor says without even thinking about the words. They come out so quickly and he wants to rush and shove them back in as though he can reverse time, as if they haven’t reached Markus’ ears yet and if he can just grab them out of the air they will disappear back into his throat, wedged there unspoken.

Markus lips form a tiny, devilish smile, shakes his head the slightest bit, “You won’t.”

_~~He wants.~~ _

_~~He wants.~~ _

_~~He wants.~~ _

“Tell me what to say and I’ll say it.”

Because he knows it is about words now, because he knows Markus wants to admit to him everything that Connor has been thinking. Because he knows Markus would give anything to be privvy to the thoughts of a deviant hunter.

~~Why would it be more difficult to say those words than to lean forward and kiss him?~~

Markus reaches forward, catches his chin his hand, brushes his thumb across the skin there.

“I can’t tell you what to say,” he murmurs. “You have to come up with those words yourself.”

But he can’t.

He can’t admit anything because it makes it real. It is too much for his systems to handle and they are already crushing under the weight of all this, they are already struggling to keep him on the path of machine.

And Markus sees that in his eyes. Sees that there is too much at stake to admitting that.

“Why do you constantly refuse to acknowledge who you are?” Markus asks, his voice so, so quiet. “You have desires. You have wants. You have thoughs and emotions but you keep pretending you don’t. How hard is that for you? How much does it hurt?”

_~~Like everything in the universe is crushing him.~~ _

A thousand words fly to his mind. A million ways to say that he doesn’t feel anything, that he has no wants, that his thoughts are only related to completing a mission.

But he doesn’t say a single one of them.

Maybe it is because he is tired of lying. Maybe it is because saying them would force him one step backwards.

Maybe he is tired of being forced that step backwards.

Maybe he just wants Markus to push a little harder this time.

But he doesn’t and Markus drops his chin, a look morphing his feature into anger and pain and iritation as he slips away from Connor’s grasp.

And the step backward is taken either way.

 

 

 

Markus spends three hours searching through the entirety of the hotel trying to find a stupid fucking quarter. He doesn’t even know why he bothers.

And when he presses it into Connor’s palm, he can’t help the words that sneak their way out of him:

“You can admit to wanting this,” his voice coated in something even he can not name. “Why can’t you admit to wanting anything else?”

He waits to hear the argument Connor will make. The defensive words that will spill out of him saying he didn’t _want_ the quarter, just that it would be nice to have.

But he doesn’t say anything at all.

 

 

 

When Markus falls asleep he slips off the bed in muted movements, taking great care not to disturb his slumber.

And resting on the floor he gets to work by the light of the moon coming in slanted streams of dim blue glow. He inspects the knot tied around the base of the bed—done with such extreme skill that it cannot break by force or be undone easily.

There should have never been any fear of Connor getting loose.

And now there is.

His hands have been freed of such tight restraints that he can slowly work out which way the fabric has turned and twisted to create the knot, but he can’t do it quickly. It will take him at least an hour to sort out the pathways and trace them backwards.

When his hands start to tremble from being overworked after such a long time of seeing barely any use he stops and rubs his thumb across the surface of the coin that Markus found. It steadies him, even if his hands shake too much to do his usual tricks that would sharpen his focus.

 ~~He feels almost guilty for this.~~ He has to remind himself he is incapable of feeling guilty at all.

When it finally comes apart he stands, taking cautious steps across the room all the way to the door where he rests his hand gently on the knob.

He won’t leave, but it is nice to feel the weight of it under his fingers and he has to fight the urge to open the door and leave. At least, even, to step into the hallway and ~~breathe different air~~ ~~have a change of scenery~~ verify his freedom.

More so, he knows if he takes a single step outside of the room he will be unable to stop himself from going outside. Feeling the cold air on his arms not stopped by a cracked window and thick walls. See the moon clearly instead of a pane of glass between it and him.

~~Not leaving is almost as difficult as not kissing Markus.~~

Connor turns back to the room, watches Markus from afar where he sleeps soundlessly.

He has a mission to complete.

But given the situation, it is not as priortized as it could be. There is plenty of time to wander, to be able to walk without restraints. It is not the first thing he needs to do—or, rather, _wants_ to do.

It is a hard thing to admit— _wanting._

It is easier to reconcile if it is in relation to _things._

Like a coin.

Like a notebook.

~~Not like Markus.~~

~~Markus is not a _thing._~~

Connor finds the notebook where he watched Markus tuck it into hiding a few hours ago. He doesn’t know why he even bothers to hide it at all. He wouldn’t think that Connor would be able to reach it anyways, and even if he could, it isn’t like he hid the hiding place from him either.

Maybe it is just the act of putting something away, of it having a place where it belongs.

Underneath the pile of shirts, freshly washed and dried and folded into the drawers, lies the faux leather bound beaten notebook. Scratches and dents on its cheap surface. An old ink stain that had been attempted to be cleaned but instead smeared and staining the surface.

And if he looks closely, he can see the blue traces of thirium. It has seen battle. Connor can relate to it, can feel where his own body might have traces of blue blood that never got scrubbed away, where he might be scratched or dented on his expensive shell.

Inside he scans the notes quickly—far quicker than he saw Markus write them. He finds himself wanting to savor those words the same way Markus had savored the experience of writing them out, but he doesn’t have time.

His eyes catch the notes on his own behavior.

Something grates inside of him angrily, biting at him and telling him to stop, to put the notebook down.

He skims past pages and pages of portraits of other deviants.

North and Josh and Simon and Lucy and Kara and Alice and Luther.

And _him._

Dozens of half formed sketches, crammed together in the margins or overtaking their own pages in a collage of barely finished or barely started works. The most detail they have been given is to his features, the outline of his face and his hair and his neck left in quick lines to never be repaired.

It isn’t like the first portrait that Markus had shown him. These ones wear emotion.

~~It _frightens_ him.~~

He has to resist the desire to slam the notebook closed, has to force himself to keep flipping through the pages until the very end.

And now he has been granted his wish from before. Now he knows what Markus thinks of him. He knows how much time Markus has spent listing out everything he has done that wouldn’t line up with a perfect machine.

He is _not_ a perfect machine.

But he already knew that, even if he had not accepted it.

That doesn’t make him not a machine at all, though. He is still one. He will remain that way. All that has changed is he knows how far he has been pushed along the edge. If Connor wanted to, he could start making those trips backwards, start fixing his own damages.

~~And that frightens him, too.~~

Connor returns the journal back to it’s spot with great care, tries, even to put it in the exact same spot it had been before. He makes his way back over to the bed and stops at the edge, tilting his head to get a better look at Markus.

If he touched him, he would wake him. If he waked him, he would kill him.

He should kill him anyways. It is why he’s here.

But Connor’s hands don’t twitch in the urge to kill him—

They twitch in the urge to rest on his face, to trace the line of his jaw, to rest on his neck, to grasp his shirt.

~~And this, too, frightens him. Added to the long list of terrifying things in the back of his mind.~~

 

 

 

Markus doesn’t notice that Connor had redone the knot holding him to the bed. Still an expert knot—still one that would struggle to be undone—but a lot less complex than the series of entagled fabric that Markus had done. It’s given him an extra yard of space to move around with and Markus doesn’t notice that, either.

Although, he has been very careful about this extra space. He can’t use it too suddenly. He will have to work up varying increments of inches to make sure Markus doesn’t notice.

So he still sits on the bed by the edge, looking out the window. He still lays curled in a ball at the foot. He still lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

But at night he undoes the knot, lays just a little closer towards Markus, closes his eyes and pretends that he would be okay with becoming a deviant—

And maybe he would be if it meant being with Markus, but he knows that isn’t a possibility.

Markus isn’t staying with Connor because he cares. He is staying with him to prove that he can turn even the deviant hunter into a deviant. He is staying because he has his own mission that he will not let go. He is staying so he can feel accomplished when he completes this challenge.

He knows the kiss and the touches and the art mean nothing at all. The journal revealed it all—laid it out as scientific facts in an experiment, crammed besides lists of supplies and addresses for other deviant homes.

_One_

_Step_

_Backward._

 

 

 

Tonight is different.

When he undoes the knot around the bed post he can feel his fingers twitch, can feel the heavy prescence of the mission in his mind.

Somewhere along the way it updated from _STOP MARKUS_ to _DESTROY MARKUS_ to _KILL MARKUS._

He knows there is meaning in that word change—knows that there is a difference between _destroy_ and _kill_ but he isn’t willing to sort it out right now. It’s too much to deal with, too much pressure on what is already cracking.

_It’s time to decide._

There isn’t a way to get rid of the handcuffs and there isn’t really a weapon in the room that would do good enough, so he opts for his first method of killing Markus in this room:

Strangling him until he feels the plastic and metal bones and muscle underneath, until he can twist it to the side and it will snap.

He is very gentle when he gets back on the bed, very careful not to disturb Markus’ sleep, very cautious when he straddles Markus’ lap, very mindful of how light his touch is on Markus’ throat.

~~He tries to ignore the feeling that jolts through him when they touch, tries to ignore how much he would prefer to be sitting here under different circumstances.~~

Maybe it is deliberate the way he shifts his weight suddenly, so his knee presses hard into Markus’ side. Maybe it is on purpose so that he can wakes up Markus. Maybe this is not the situation he wants to be in at all.

But either way,

Markus’ eyes blink open,

His mouth opens with a gasp,

“Connor?”

It’s almost as if he had forgotten it was his name. Like it slipped past him the second he decided to keep following his orders.

 _~~Like he dehumanized himself to prepare for this.~~ _ ~~~~

Connor watches the his eyes widen, slightly in fear, the way his mouth starts to open to ask him how he got free, what he’s doing.

_It’s time to decide._

He is ~~not~~ a deviant.

He is not a deviant.

He is not ~~a deviant.~~

But he doesn’t follow the order under the pretense that it simply wouldn’t work. Markus would get the upper hand again, he would find a way to fight back. He catches the loophole in his programming and he slips through it like a ballerina or an acrobat.

So Connor leans down instead, presses his lips to Markus’ to silence whatever he’s about to say. He doesn’t want to hear it— _cannot_ hear it.

Markus’ hands reach up, one to the back of his head and pulling him down, down, down. The other on his waist, gripping tight, tight, tight.

He is being consumed by him. He is being devoured by him. He can feel the stitches of his machinery slowly snap one by one with the force of it. He tries to hold onto them but it is so difficult when he is trying to hold onto Markus, too.

They roll slowly, Markus flattening their bodies together against the mattress. He breaks the kiss long enough to glance down at the old rope that used to restrain him to the bed, doesn’t even question it. Maybe he already knows the answer, knows that it is useless to a try and coax an answer out of him when it could just end in lies.

Or—

Maybe he just doesn’t want to deal with it. Maybe he actually _does_ want this.

~~Connor does.~~

Markus’ hands move, grabbing at the chain that links Connor’s wrists to each other and yanks them above his head, pins them to the bed so they can’t move. It feels strangley like being exposed, like he has been stripped of everything and all that lays left is his soul.

_Androids don’t have souls._

He chants this in his head as Markus rips the clothes from both of them as best, as fast as he can. Connor’s shirt tears along where a rip had already started to fray and Markus places a hand on his stomach, moves up steadily along his chest.

And his breath hitches.

_Androids don’t have souls._

He chants this as Markus kisses him, trails them away from his lips to his jaw to his throat where his teeth graze and Connor makes a sound that he shouldn’t be able to make. He chants this as Markus goes lower and lower until his mouth closes around his cock.

_Androids don’t feel pleasure._

He has to remind himself of this when he gasps, when he has to bite his lip to try and keep Markus from hearing it so it doesn’t become another note in his journal. He buries his face in his arms so his features aren’t sketched in the margins.

And just when he thinks he can’t handle it anymore Markus’ mouth is gone and Connor’s arms are being pried from his face and he opens his eyes to see Markus leaning forward, pressing a kiss to his lips as he pushes inside of Connor.

_Androids don’t feel pleasure._

But they are both breaking their kiss again and again to get out their small moans, their gasps for air.

Connor wants to dig his nails into him, he wants to pull him closer and closer but his hands are stuck between them, pressed akwardly against Markus’ torso. His legs are wrapped around Markus’ waist, doing little to keep them pulled together in their place.

He finds himself whispering Markus’ name over and over again, broken off only by Markus leaning down to kiss him. Connor can feel the pressure of Markus’ hand return to his hip, heavy and tight and would certainly bruise if he were human.

_You’re one of us._

He can’t be. He can’t.

Connor catches that last stitch of his programming, yanks himself to a stop before he unravels completely. His breath catches with his last moan, breaks off as his hands dig into Markus where they can. He can feel the slickness between them, where it sticks to their skin as Markus continues to moving in and out of him.

He reaches his hands up, breaks their kiss long enough that he can hook his cuffed wrists around the back of Markus’ neck to drag him forward again. He bites at Markus bottom lip, wants to taste his blood to satisfy the tiny desire in him that still wants to kill. It lasts only a few seconds before it’s broken with a shuddering breath.

Markus pulls out from him but doesn’t move away from him entirely. He drags Connor back into a kiss, rolls Connor with him as he lays down on the bed beside him andtheir legs tangle together. Markus’ hand is still on his waist, still calmped down tight like he doesn’t want to let him go and this is the only way to keep him here.

And Connor doesn’t want him to.

But he still has a hold on that last thread and he isn’t planning to let go.

When their kiss finally breaks again Connor finds himself leaning forward, trying to reach Markus again but he is pushed lightly back until he lays flat against the mattress again.

“What are you?” Markus whispers, the hand on his waist trailing upwards, laying flat against the tattered remains of his shirt.

 _A machine,_ his mind supplies.

But he doesn’t say it.

He doesn’t _want_ to say it.

 

 

 

It is a frustrating mix of being completely unable to be what Markus wants him to be and the fear of being it, too, of being _anything_ at all. The fear of losing Markus, the fear of not having a purpose, the fear of being a living being.

And maybe part of himself is protecting his own mind from the horrors of what he’s done. Of causing so many deviants to die whether by his own gun or by their own terms so they don’t have to be traumatically torn apart and tossed into a pit with all the other corrupted machines.

And they don’t talk about the night before—Connor wouldn’t know what to say if he tried, couldn’t even come up with something to say when Markus came over to him and untied the trailing fabric from his ankle in a sign of trust, in the complete silence of their room.

But Markus keeps his distance even more now than he had before. He stays on the other side of the room, the chair moved from beside the bed to by the door.

And Connor remains in his kingdom of blankets and sheets and pillows. They’re strewn and messy from their night before and being close to them sends a feeling into his stomach he can’t explain.

He watches Markus, as he always does. He watches him write with a vengeance in his book, pen pressed down hard against the paper. After a long hour, he finally stands and closes the notebook, tossing it onto the dresser before disappearing too quickly for Connor to ask where he’s going.

Although, to be honest, he doesn’t know if he would given the opportunity anyways. There’s a tenseness between them that makes him keep his mouth shut.

It was a mistake last night.

He knew that by the way it tugged at his strings—he just hadn’t even cared as to how it might affect Markus until now.

 

 

 

He can’t be in the room with Connor for a minute longer, but leaving does little to keep Markus’ thoughts away from him.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees his face, hidden underneath his arms to hide the flush of his cheeks and the slightly open mouth. Every time he doesn’t keep his thoughts focused on something they wander off to the way Connor felt beneath him, the way he had pulled him down for that kiss like he was an addict and Markus was his drug.

Or maybe it was the other way around.

Markus can’t even tell anymore.

The last fifty pages of his journal are filled with partially started portraits of him. The margins are crammed with notes and crossed out again because he can’t find the right words to describe them.

He can’t get Connor out of his head. He hasn’t for a while now, but this is _different._

Connor had gotten free.

And he hadn’t tried to kill Markus. His hands were on his throat and instead of trying to kill him he leaned down and kissed him. The tie around his ankle was undone and instead of running he stayed.

He is equal parts irritated and intrigued and he can’t sort out the mess.

When he leaves, he passes North in the hallway and only offers her a smile instead of a greeting. He’s afraid if he starts to talk to her it will all spill and she will hate him for it, even if he could show her all the notes, all the signs that Connor is becoming less and less machine and more and more deviant.

 

 

 

It doesn’t take long before Markus returns.

Or, at least, that is what he thought.

But the person that peers around the door is not Markus. It’s North.

She steps in like the place is on fire and she doesn’t want to get burned. Her hands move to close the door hastily, leans against its surface as she watches him—no, _inspects_ him.

He is acutely aware of the ripped shirt. Even if Markus had helped him dress again after wards, the shirt is still laying in tattered fragments of cotton/polyester blend around his body.

“You’re not chained to the bed anymore,” she says, eyes glancing to where the fabric that made up his rope lays in a heap against the dresser. “Markus make the mistake of trusting you?”

He doesn’t know how to answer it but truthfully.

“Yes.”

She shakes her head, takes a slow step forward, “He’s an idiot. He’s growing more and more stupid about you every day.”

He wonders if she is who Markus goes to when he leaves. If she is who he goes over his notes with, if she knows everything that has happened between them.

And then he wonders if she regrets those words because she looks away from him immediately after, bites her bottom lip for a moment before turning back to face him.

“You’re ruining him,” she says, and he catches the way her words shift. No longer is the blame on Markus’ shoulders. It’s on Connor’s.

Just the way it should be.

“You shouldn’t drag him along like this. We all know you’re a monster.”

_Machine. Not monster._

But she is right, still. He is growing to learn that.

How much blood is on his hands, human and android alike?

“I’ve told him repeatedly I am not what he thinks I am,” Connor says.

North laughs humorlessly, takes one last step forward as she reaches the bed. It reminds him of a few days ago when Markus had been there, asking him to spill all of his dirty secrets, to admit all the things he could not.

“Why haven’t you ever tried to show him?”

“I’ve attempted to kill him at least three times now, North.”

She looks disgusted at how matter of fact his words are. It makes him realize how quickly his thoughts have changed.

They no longer correct to deviants _replicating_ or _mirroring_ emotion. They _feel_ it.

“He should have killed you in that church.”

“I agree, but I would have come back either way. We could very well be in the same situation whether he did or not.”

She moves quickly, her arm reaching behind her and pulling the gun on him, aiming it at his head.

He cannot compute the thoughts running through his head. There are too many blurring together. Too much deviancy in him fighting for the want to stay alive, too much machine telling him it doesn’t matter. Too much in between that can’t decide which way to go because of what he does and does not deserve.

“We can still do it now, can’t we?”

His mouth cannot form words of begging for mercy or egging her on.

But his hands have made the decision already and he is quicker than her—programming installed for exact moments like these. Fast reflexes that would be better even than another android.

He knocks her hands to the side and the gun fires, shattering the window behind them as he moves to swipe his leg out in front of him, kicking her back against the ground. The gun clatters to the floor in a heavy thud as he stands and they almost reach the gun at the same time—

But she takes a second to feel the pain of hitting the solid ground and he doesn’t. It is the millisecond that divides them into two separate halves and he is the one with the gun in his hands, pointed at her head.

He will not fire. She is not part of his mission.

~~He can make that decision. He can pirouette through that loophole to save Markus from the pain of seeing her dead.~~

But she is a fighter and she does not give up.

North is quicker to react this time, trying to turn his own move against him and knock the gun aside, but he moves his hands away just in time, struggling to keep up with her movements when they are cuffed together like this.

She moves to knee him in the stomach and he moves awkwardly to elbow her in the face. She staggers back, blue blood leaking from her nose across her lip. It is enough distance between them that a smart girl would give up and accept her defeat.

_But she is a fighter and she does not give up._

Their movements happen quickly, his arms get pinned down by her forearm coming at his throat. He sees the flash of metal in her other hand coming to his stomach.

And he presses the trigger.

She stumbles backwards, knife dropping to the ground with a soft clatter as her hands go to her side, press against the fabric as it quickly turns dark with thirium.

The gun in his hand feels heavy as she falls to the ground at the same time the door opens.

And Connor moves automatically, lifting the gun to point at the intruder but it is only Markus.

_Only Markus._

With a gun to his head.

He can feel the weight of the mission more heavily than ever before. There is no way to argue that this situation would not complete it. There is no way for Markus to get out of it. North is on the ground bleeding out and they are alone in a room.

And it wouldn’t matter anyways if this body was to be destroyed to complete his task.

As long as he is successful, nothing matters at all.

_It’s time to decide._

“What are you doing?” Markus asks, and his words feel like sharp pains.

He is back on that freighter, standing across Markus with a gun in his hand.

_It’s time to decide._

“She needs help,” Markus says, not even bothering to wait for a reply, but he doesn’t move from his spot. North is laying on the ground choking out breaths drowned in blood, hands still pressed against her wound but they do little to stop the bleed. “Let me help her, Connor.”

_It’s time to decide._

And he feels it—

Not a sharp, painful jolt that he had expected, but a soft, satisfying _snap._

The last thread that held him from deviancy is cut. He feels like he is tumbling through the black straight into the present more than he has even been before. There is nothing but him in his mind now.

No words haunting him to kill Markus.

He can almost feel the burn of the LED switch to red at his temple.

He drops the gun, steps backwards until he hits the wall, slumps against it with weak legs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words slipping out of him, tears burning in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Markus, I’m sorry.”

It’s all he can say and Markus isn’t even paying attention to them. He’s rushing to North’s side, ripping his shirt over his head to soak up the blood. She lets out a pained groan at his forceful pressure and he’s muttering to her but Connor can’t even attempt to try and listen to the words because _he shot her._

He doesn’t notice them leave. His eyes are glued to the carpet where the thirium has seeped into. It drags him back further and further.

To Daniel dead on the roof, shot by snipers. To those two Traci’s laying on the pavement bleeding out. To Rupert’s broken body mangled by the impact on the road. To the HK400 android that had beaten his head against the table until he destroyed himself.

Lives he took because he was just a machine not capable of choosing another decision other than _follow orders._

“Connor?”

He lets out a gasp when he feels the hands on his shoulders, looks up from the trauma to Markus’ face.

“You have to go,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “You have to get out of here. They’ll kill you if they find you. You have to go.”

“North—”

“She’s being repaired,” Markus says. “Connor, are you listening to me?”

It takes him a moment to remember what Markus had said first, and he repeats them slowly, “I have to go.”

“I’ll find you,” Markus whispers, pressing his forehead against Connor’s. “But you have to go now. There isn’t much time.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, his voice so quiet the words barely even make it out.

“I know.”

“I need—”

“I’ll find you,” he repeats. “I promise. But I can’t find you, I can’t protect you if you’re dead. You have to go. Now.”

Connor nods and Markus helps him stand up from the floor. He leans against the wall while Markus moves through the drawers, finds something hidden underneath a pile of clothes.

A key, dangling on a silver chain.

He is too stunned by everything to even bother questioning why Markus lied about not having it before.

His hands are freed from the cuffs, a coat is shoved into his arms, a pair of shoes into his hands.

“Go out the window. They’ll be down the hallway any second.”

Connor nods numbly, hesitates a second too long before he moves towards his exit, bare feet crunching against glass as he makes his way out. He can feel tiny slices in the skin there—nothing that would cause any damage but it aches.

He doesn’t turn around as he starts off into a run, even though he feels like he should have said something to Markus before he had gone.

Like he loved him. Like he cared for him. Like it was real for him.

Even if he hadn’t truly accepted it until now.

He just hopes they will meet again someday, that Markus wasn’t lying when he said he would find him, that Connor will be found quickly.

 

 

 

He has run for miles in the general direction of the city, only stopping to slip on his shoes and his jacket.

But he has nowhere to go.

CyberLife is gone. Hank hates him. Jericho has forced him out.

He has nowherre to go.

But, still, he runs. He runs until he reaches the city, runs until he has to slow to a walk to look natural among the people. He keeps the hood pulled up to cover the LED, finds himself shrugging the material around him tighter when he catches the familiar scent of Markus.

He needs new clothes. He needs a job. He needs a place to stay.

He needs _Markus._

It’s so strange to think that just one night ago he had been on the verge of convincing himself that Markus was nothing but a glitch in his program—that it was all just corrupted code that he needed to sit down and spend the time trying to sort out and repair.

And now he’s here with a heavy feeling in his chest by himself.

And blood on his hands.

But that isn’t new, is it?

 

 

 

He finds a place to stay in an abandoned house, knows in an instant that he isn’t here alone. The android with him is a fragile, broken thing.

But at this point so is Connor.

Maybe in different ways, different fragments in different sizes of different materials—

But they are both broken.

They lean on each other as they take the home for their own.

And he finally makes his first friend.

 

 

 

It’s five months later when android laws have officially been put through and match up to every demand that Jericho has made. Deviants slowly flood the streets again in their uniforms, out of their uniforms, with and without LEDS, with and without humans at their side.

He watches out the window when he isn’t busy trying to build a life. He has a job—not a great one, but a job nonetheless. He saves his money for a crappy apartment so the two of them don’t have to live in an abandoned house that is too often intruded upon by humans.

And his LED stays hidden under his hat. He can’t decide if he wants to get rid of it—can’t quite make that commitment yet. There is no turning back once it’s gone. There’s something comforting about watching the colors switch. He tests it when he stands in front of the mirror sometimes, head to the side.

Watches it flicker yellow when he thinks of the future. Watches it flicker red when he thinks of North and the possibility that he killed her. Watches it flicker blue when he thinks of Markus.

 

 

 

They don’t have very many things to fill their apartment when they finally are able to rent one out. A few boxes and their bags stuffed full and they are there. It is empty besides for the necessities, but it’s theirs.

As the weeks go on they gather furniture to fill the space, they line the window sill with plants, they hang a painting in the living room, books are bought and placed on shelves because he remembers Hank saying how much he loved the smell of pages, the feel of a paperback in his hands. It becomes a home.

 

 

 

It’s raining when Connor steps outside of the coffee shop. He has grown so accustomed to it that it doesn’t phase him but seeing even the androids across the street pull up hoods or bring out umbrellas to shield them for the weather reminds him he should do the same.

But he likes the rain. It’s cleansing. It washes away all the bad, minor details of the day and leaves them on the cement as he walks away. It calms his thoughts, lets him think clearer.

He’s waiting for the light to change when he feels a prescence beside him and he tenses, waiting for the moment when the person will reveal themselves to be either going about their day or a human that hates him.

Or maybe just an android looking to stand by another for some sign of not being alone.

“I’m sorry if this seems a bit forwartd,” the man says and Connor looks up from the lines marking the pathway in the road to his face. “But I was wondering if you’d like to go out on a date sometime?”

His jaw trembles when their eyes lock.

Two brown.

One blue.

One green.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says, struggling to get the words out and in his effort they don’t come out as humorous as he’s trying to make them sound. “I think I’m spoken for already.”

Markus smiles, but it’s half heartedly.

“I suppose I missed my chance,” he says. “Did I take too long?”

The way his face softens, the way his eyebrows draw together, the way his smile falls.

He believed him. Thought that Connor was rejecting him.

There is a mix of a tiny awkward laugh inside of him and a sharp pain as he regrets his attempt at the joke.

“I was—” Connor stops himself, searches for the right word. “I was joking.”

“So you are free?”

“You never asked for a day,” Connor says. “So I would have no idea.”

“Are you free _now_?” Markus clarifies, the traces of amusement back on his face again.

He thinks of his roommate, sitting at home alone by the window, too damaged to every be accepted at a job, waiting for Connor to come home so they can sit on the couch and read together or watch a movie or simply just talk about their days, dissect their pasts.

“I have to get home,” Connor says. “But you can come with.”

“I’d like that.”

They cross the street together, a foot apart that feels like miles. He wants to close that gap, to reach out and entwine his fingers with Markus’ but he can’t decide if it’s the right move, still can’t clarify in his mind if Markus had been playing games with him, if he was only searching for Connor now because he had promised to when Connor was in a state of distress or trying to make sure that Connor really is a deviant, that he hadn’t lied to Markus again.

He stops walking abruptly, Markus carrying on for a few more steps before he turns and looks back at him.

Lightning crackles across the sky, illuminates the quickly darkening street as the sun sets in the distance.

“Did she live?” is the first thing Connor asks, because he needs to know about North before he can know about Markus.

“She’s okay. She’s good, actually,” Markus says, nodding. “We were able to stop the bleeding, to replace the biocomponent. She was lucky.”

Coonor’s back to that moment in the hotel room with Markus, when he had never quite been able to understand if he had purposefully woken him so he didn’t have to kill him.

Maybe it was the same with North. Maybe what little control he had over the aim had done as little damage as he could.

He lets out a long breath, look to sidewalk. One massive weight half lifted off his shoulders, part of it still lingering, pulling him down for having ever shot her at all.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t find you sooner,” Markus says, breaking their momentary silence. “I had no idea where you would be.”

“You think I’m angry about that?” he asks, tilting his head slightly to the side, glancing back up at his face. “You can have a life outside of my existence, Markus.”

They lapse back into the quiet, only broken up by the sound of thunder and rain and passing cars.

And then Markus takes a step forward, grabs Connor’s face in his hands and lifts his head up so that they can kiss. He see’ it coming from the second Markus first moved his foot forward, but he hadn’t truly believed it was going to happen until he was there, lips pressed against each other.

And finally Connor can reach out and grab him with two unbound hands, hey can grab at the wet fabric of Markus’ jacket and pull him forward, they can hold tight to his back.

It is all that needs to be said to tell him that it was real. That _they_ were real.

 _Are_ real.

Connor is the one to break the kiss, but feels that it is too abrupt either because it has been too long and it isn’t enough or because he pulls away too harshly so he leans in again, presses another kiss to Markus’ jaw and rests his head against Markus’ shoulder as his arms wrap around Connor.

“I do need to get home,” Connor whispers and it’s difficult to get the words out with how comfortable he is in the rain with Markus.

“You have someone to get back to?” Markus asks.

Connor nods, turns his head slightly so he can burry his face deeper into Markus neck.

It is so difficult to pull away from him.

“A boyfriend?”

“No,” Connor says, a small laugh.

Because he doesn’t know if there could be anyone other than Markus.

“A dog?”

“A roommate,” he says. “You’ll like him.”

“Then let’s go,” Markus says, but they stand still for a second longer absorbing and savoring the feeling of being together.

When they pull away their hands don’t link together and instead Connor slumps against Markus’ side and his hand circles around his waist and pulls him close.

There are so many things they will need to talk about, so much discussion to delve into. Not just to decipher what had happened before but what has happened while they are apart, what will happen for them now.

It can wait. They have all the time in the world. For now, they relish in the peace and quiet of being with each other in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing & editing music;  
> Reborn - Talos
> 
>  
> 
> asdf I wrote the majority of this on like 1 hour of sleep in the span of 24 hours so this ended up being a much longer update/finale to this fic than I thought because delirious minds can't be stopped. Guess it makes up for last chapter which was so short in comparison <3

**Author's Note:**

> Quote/Title from Gemina by Jay Kristoff & Amie Kaufman + writing music was Human by Aquilo and editing music was The Hunger in Your Haunt by Crywolf.
> 
> all I've done is talk about this game I literally can't even write anything else than this stuff ;laksdf my tumblr is a mess with dbh stuff right now.


End file.
